


the dance of the hornet

by TheIndianWinter



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Assassin Bilbo, But he's retired and is now very respectable thank you very much, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-10
Updated: 2019-07-10
Packaged: 2020-06-25 21:30:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19754179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheIndianWinter/pseuds/TheIndianWinter
Summary: “Nothing about you is simple Master Baggins, and that is why we are here.”-Or, in which Gandalf persuades Bilbo to come out of retirement, helped in turn by the Exiled Prince of Durin and his unreasonably lovely singing voice.





	the dance of the hornet

**Author's Note:**

> So I originally began this story in January 2016. It has been sitting on my computer, almost finished and at about 10k words since around July of that year. At the time, my mum was going through treatment for cancer, so I lost the motivation to finish completely.  
> Over the past few years, I have kept coming back to this in my head, as I regretted never getting it to the point where I could publish it, but over the past couple of days, I have worked on those missing scenes, I’ve tweaked a few things, and I’ve got it to a point where it finally feels finished. When I first started writing this back in 2016, this oneshot was to be the first of two parts, with the second following the aftermath/what was happening in Erebor, but I realised early-on that I liked the ambiguity of what I had written so far as a stand-alone. This is why Oin, Gloin, Dori, Nori and Ori are absent from the Company, as they are working from inside Erebor in this timeline. 
> 
> The Khuzdul translation was possible thanks to The Dwarrow Scholar’s excellent dictionary.  
> The flower meaning is taken from The Language of Flowers by Kate Greenaway. 
> 
> After all this time, it feels good to let go and publish this. 
> 
> Kudos and comments are greatly appreciated and I hope you enjoy.

_**the dance of the hornet** _

Sometimes, Bilbo mused, recalling words murmured long ago around the dark stem of a pipe, one has to be cruel to be kind. Sometimes violence is the only way to ensure peace.

He smiled wryly.

Of course, they were to be the ones applying the violence, that was always the implication, as it had been many months ago, when his own peaceful retirement had first been disturbed that day in Spring. 

Before he returned home, he was going to bloody murder Gandalf since this was all his fault. It would be an act of violence to ensure his own peace of mind.

That was, indeed, if he survived this, he continued bitterly, withholding a wince at the cold sting of the knife that bit into the exposed flesh of his throat.

Oh yes, Gandalf was going to pay for this.

* * *

It began, as these things are wont to do, on an early Spring day, when a lazy breeze swirled through the Shire, carrying on its wings the scent of flowers in bloom and the delightful lack of possibility.

Bilbo Baggins, being the completely ordinary and respectable gentlehobbit that he was, sat on the wooden bench in in front garden, puffing on a fragrant pipe and occasionally opening one eye to regard his efforts at smoke rings.

He stilled when he felt a dark shadow block out the gentle rays of the midmorning sun, but his eyes remained closed in a futile effort to ignore the figure he knew to be before him and the inevitable destruction said figure would wreak upon his life. With a heaviness to his person, he peeked out of his right eye as one of his smoke rings - now in the shape of a butterfly - dissolved in the air just beside his nose. 

“Gandalf,” the Hobbit said flatly, in acknowledgement of the Wizard who - just as always - seemed to be positively twinkling with unknown mirth.

“Bilbo Baggins,” greeted he, still with that enigmatic smile, “Good morning.” 

“Good morning,” replied Bilbo, with a trepidation not unlike that of a man condemned to death, setting his pipe aside and preparing himself. Running was an option, of course, but Gandalf was incredibly canny and if he was here, well it was a long way to travel for a mere social call. Bilbo was not sure he could gather the power necessary from his space on the bench to land a kick to the throat sufficient to facilitate an escape. 

“How do you feel about an adventure?”

Bilbo quirked an eyebrow in amusement - such a request was indeed expected and of course, unwanted. 

“Retired,” he reminded the Istari in a sing-song voice.

“Bilbo Baggins, you are barely fifty tears old,” he huffed. “You cannot just waste away here, in your smial!”

Bilbo frowned, an expression that were it directed toward anyone else, would be considered extremely dangerous, but Gandalf as ever, remained unmoved. 

“Watch me,” the Hobbit bit out after a moment, before moving swiftly but grumpily back up the path to his round green door. 

As he crouched beneath the window, he listened as the wizard approached the door, but did not knock, and he resigned himself to the fact that this was most definitely not the End and that the bastard would be back later, and with a vengeance. 

* * *

The bastard was back, as he had feared, and with vengeance in the form of seven rowdy dwarves that in half an hour had thoroughly desecrated his pantry and thrown about his mother’s Westfarthing pottery, giving him palpitations. Gandalf sat there smugly, steadily working his way through a bottle of Southfarthing’s finest red and surveying Bilbo, raising his eyebrows incredulously each time the Hobbit turned to glare at him. 

Seemingly, he was watching for glimpses of the ‘Bilbo I once knew’. Bilbo just wished the Wizard was a bit less canny. Then he could remind the Wizard just what he was capable of. 

Just as his unexpected (and frankly unwanted) guests were finally calming down, there came a forceful knock at the door which set them off into excited mutterings. 

So this was the leader they had been anticipating then. 

By the time Bilbo reached the door, Gandalf had already answered it, and though the figure was obscured to him by the door itself, he could hear the rumblings of a deep voice. Bilbo peered around the Wizard to be confronted by the imposing figure of the Prince-in-Exile. 

Bilbo cast Gandalf a side-long glance, “You did not tell me I would be playing host to a fugitive.”

The dwarf’s head snapped to Bilbo, sharp eyes narrowing as they took in his form. He stepped into the hall, glaring haughtily down at him. 

“So this is the hobbit,” he commented archly, glancing amusedly at several of his subjects that had wandered into the hallway. One of them sniggered. 

Bilbo bit back a growl and before he could really process what he was doing, he was across the room with a knife to the Prince’s throat. He took consolation from the fact that at least everyone else in the hallway seemed more surprised than Bilbo himself, all except Gandalf of course, who was practically radiating self-satisfied amusement. 

The one who had sniggered cried out. 

The Prince just looked down at him with wide blue eyes, the surprise evident, but there was another emotion there, one that was indiscernible. Unusually, however, it was not fear.

Bilbo knew what it was to be feared. 

He blinked once and then his lips twitched up into a catlike smirk.

“I thank you not to dismiss me so quickly, my Prince,” he sneered. 

The Prince’s throat bobbed, pressing closer to the edge of the blade, though not enough to pierce the smooth flesh. He gave a short, jerky nod and Bilbo inclined his head graciously in return before snapping the knife away, hiding it once more about his person. 

“Well how about you get the Prince some dinner Bilbo?” Gandalf offered, voice quivering on the cusp of laughter. 

The hobbit straightened his shoulders, then his waistcoat, sharply affording the put-upon manner of a fussy host and near stomped away to the kitchen, muttering as he went about greedy dwarves eating him out of house of home and ‘if His Majesty thinks he’s getting more than broth and a crust of bread I’ll ram them down his bloody throat’.

Eyes following him as he went, Prince Thorin regarded the sudden change in demeanour with bemusement. 

Dwalin sidled up beside him, the beginnings of a grin curling at his lips.

“Shut up,” Thorin grumbled, elbowing him lightly in the side.

His friend raised his hands in a proclamation of innocence, “I said nothing.”

Sending Dwalin a sceptical glance over his shoulder, he started down the corridor in the wake of their host. 

He found the hobbit - Bilbo - bustling about his kitchen, still grousing to himself as he prepared what looked indeed to be soup. 

“My Prince,” he greeted in that mocking tone with Thorin yet to fully cross the threshold and without even turning from his place before the stove. 

“So you were not lying about serving me broth then,” he commented, folding his arms to conceal the fact he was lingering awkwardly in the middle of the room. 

“Of course not,” was his reply, “Your dwarves have eaten all of the good food from my fir- my pantry,” he whirled around then, brandishing his tomato sauce covered spoon in the Prince’s direction. “I expect reimbursement.”

Thorin smirked at that, “How does a share in the wealth of Erebor sound to you?”

The ease dropped from the hobbit’s expression, “I do not want money, My Prince, only food. I am but a simple hobbit after all.”

“Nothing about you is simple Master Baggins, and that is why we are here.”

“I’ve already told Gandalf,” Bilbo said sharply, “I will not be going. I am retired.”

Raising one eyebrow, Thorin teased, “You hardly look old enough to be retired.”

Bilbo clutched at his chest in a mock swoon, “Oh how you flatter me sir!”

The Prince dared a step closer, now peering down into the hobbit’s face. This near, he could make out each fleck of gold in his irises, illuminated as they were by the yellow lamplight. 

“It would please me greatly if you were to join us, Master Bilbo.”

The Hobbit’s eyes seemed to darken momentarily before they cleared and his expression smoothed into one of sardonic resignation. 

“Well I suppose your saying ‘please’ means I shall have no choice now?”

The pair lapsed into silence, Thorin watching as Bilbo stirred the soup in the pot, his posture not quite rigid enough to signify discomfort and his face unreadable. He was unsure as to why he disliked the feeling of Bilbo being obligated to do anything by him quite so much, though that was not his intention for using platitudes at all. He felt like…well, like he would fail if the hobbit did not accompany with them, as if something would be quite wrong with the fabric of the world; it was strange and he could not quite put his finger upon it.

Bilbo sighed, “There are few reasons the Prince-in-Exile would show up in my humble abode.”

He almost snorted at that, also withholding his comment on how Bilbo’s smial was far from humble,but then the hobbit shot him a humourless look that said he knew exactly why Thorin was there. 

Sighing again, he said, more to himself than anything, “I always knew I couldn’t go quietly.”

When he said no more, Thorin asked, quietly, in a tone edged with cautious hope, “Does that mean you’ll come?”

“I make no such promises,” was the response.

Satisfied with even that for now, the Prince reclined against the wall, content to merely watch as Bilbo busied about the stove, stirring the soup and slicing the end of a loaf of bread into pieces. 

When he saw Bilbo set out two bowls, however, he raised his eyebrows.

“Who else is eating?”

Bilbo sent him a flat look, “Your friend Dwalin ate my supper and all that chasing around after your lot has left me quite starved.”

The Prince pretended to ruminate over this, “Well I suppose I can endure your company for a while longer.”

“How very kind of you, My Prince,” Bilbo quipped with a wicked sarcastic smile as he set out two bowls of hot tomato soup, followed by the plate of bread. 

Once both were sat at the small wooden table, he handed Thorin a spoon. 

Eyeing the red liquid a little dubiously - he wasn’t aware of any meat going into it after all - Thorin raised an experimental spoonful to his lips. The flavours rolled over his tongue; rich and creamy, smooth and delicious, and he felt his eyes widen, eliciting a well-pleased smirk from the hobbit opposite. 

Just as he opened his mouth to compliment Bilbo, Gandalf strode into the kitchen, followed by Balin, both of them pausing at the sight of the curiously domestic scene before them. 

“And here I was, worried you two might have killed one another by now,” the Wizard commented drolly. 

Bilbo muttered something that sounded suspiciously like ‘If anyone was going to be killed in my smial, a certain bushy-browed, meddling smart-arse would be first on the list’.

The Prince barely contained his chuckle and instead offered, “I have in fact persuaded Master Bilbo to join us.”

Balin gave him a doubtful glance, one that told him he knew just how charming Thorin usually was - that is to say, less charming than the smell from Dwalin’s boots. 

“I made no such promise,” Bilbo refuted, “I am merely… considering.”

* * *

That night Bilbo told a story he thought the dwarves would like. It involved a job his mother had been hired to complete, one that didn’t involve any real violence, just the implication of it, and ended with an Elven Lord looking very silly indeed. His guests had laughed uproariously, congratulated him on his wit, and expressed a wish to hear more of his tales. 

This was what had helped Bilbo eventually agree to embark on the adventure, as Gandalf had so inadequately termed it. 

Absolutely no singing had been involved. 

* * *

Any nostalgia Bilbo may have had for travel and life on the road was viciously torn away after several hours spent on the back of a smelly pony. It was when the heavens opened upon them that a hatred, one that had been lying dormant, flared once more. 

The only thing that made the whole affair even slightly bearable was the Company. They weren’t so bad for pantry-looters, all things considered. 

Well all except the Prince, whom Bilbo had decided was at fault or the whole thing. The decision not to speak to His Highness came at the end of the first day of travel, when Bilbo had dismounted Myrtle, aching and soaked through and Thorin’s lips had just twitched in amusement. 

He was annoyed and he was only there because of the Prince anyway.

Him and his stupid deep and mesmerising voice. 

Bilbo had managed to come up with no less than ten reasons why following the dwarves on what was obviously a suicide mission was a Bad Idea by the time he had finished his bowl of soup that night back in Bag-End, but then the Company had started singing and Bilbo first heard that baritone set to a rumbling, melancholic song. 

There was also a horrible feeling that he was going to be in deep, deep trouble; he ignored it resolutely. 

The first day of Bilbo’s silent treatment, Thorin accepted magnanimously, thinking it a joke. By the second, his good humour started to disperse, faced as he was with Bilbo’s incredible bull-headedness, and silence, where once he thought there was an amiable start to… something.

By the fourth, he was snarling and sniping like a grumpy cat with a thorn in its paw, so Bilbo ended up taking pity on the others at some point during the afternoon. 

“You know,” he mused loudly to Fíli and Kíli on either side of him, “If your uncle were to apologise for dragging me on this sodden grim excuse for a journey, I might be inclined to tell him another story.”

He watched Thorin’s shoulders straighten up ahead, though whether from annoyance or interest, he could not tell. 

“Fíli, Kíli,” he grumbled, “I’m sure you’ll agree with me when I point out that I did not drag anybody, anywhere. They did in fact choose to come along.”

“Perhaps if you hadn’t bloody sung,” Bilbo muttered and not as quietly as he had hoped, for the two boys snapped to attention in their saddles. Simultaneously, they turned to regard him with matching mischievous grins. It was most disconcerting.

“Oh do you like Uncle’s voice then, Master Boggins?” the younger, Kíli, asked, leaning as close as his pony would allow. 

Bilbo did not like the look in his eye. 

Especially since the young Prince seemed to already know that yes, Bilbo did indeed enjoy Thorin’s voice. It did things to his innards, making them twist and coil, not at all unpleasantly. 

The Prince whipped around in his own seat.

Bilbo stared ahead, ignoring the heat prickling at his cheeks. 

“I… er… well of course not!” he blustered, then, in a more collected tone, he added, “I was simply meaning that I was affected by that song you all sung. It was a most beautiful tragic piece.”

“It is a lament for a home lost,” Thorin supplied, “We did not even sing the full thing, there is quite the story behind it.”

“It is a great shame,” Bilbo addressed to Fíli, “That I am not speaking to your uncle at this moment, for I should quite like to hear that tale.”

Thorin glared at the three of them over his shoulder, but after a moment heaved a great, put-upon sigh. 

“Master Bilbo,” he said, “I am so very sorry for apparently inadvertently forcing you into this quest.”

“Oh nonsense,” Bilbo replied airily, “Nobody forced me to do anything.”

Thorin shot him an unamused glance as Bilbo’s pony pulled level with his own.

When Myrtle was apace with Minty, he looked to Thorin, head cocked in curiosity.

“Now do tell me all about this song.”

“It’s quite the tragic tale,” warned the Prince.

“I think I can handle it.”

* * *

Bilbo found he fell into an easy camaraderie with most of the Company as they moved ever eastwards through Eriador.

The two young Princes often appeared either side of him at mealtimes, or during the day’s riding, laughing and joking and sharing stories of their many exploits. Bofur was much the same, though he definitely contributed several lewder tales to conversation. 

Bilbo often helped Bombur with meals, the quieter dwarf having found a great respect for his extensive hobbitish knowledge of food.

Balin was friendly enough, though he seemed to keep himself at an emotional distance.

Dwalin and Bifur, however, were far more cautious around him and he often found one or the other eyeing him suspiciously. It was nothing that he wasn’t used to.

And the Prince. The Prince was sometimes brusque and sometimes doting, but he was almost always there, in Bilbo’s orbit, drawn to him by some unknown force, as unerring and constant as the compulsion of gravity. 

The Prince was Trouble. 

The problem with it was, Bilbo couldn’t really find it in himself to actually have a problem with it, even with the little voice in his head that reminded him of his deeds, of how any attempt to seek redemption would end in tragedy as it had for his parents. 

Creatures such as himself did not deserve love. 

* * *

The ponies had bolted and now, Bilbo could hear the howls of the wargs as they drew ever closer to their copse of trees.

“We need to run,” cried one of the dwarves.

“No,” Bilbo argued, “We’d be exposed.”

Desperately, he looked to Thorin, who stared for a moment before turning to address the Company.

“Bilbo’s right, we’d do better to ambush them here.”

Once all the Company, save for Bilbo and Kíli were safely concealed in the underbrush, the pair of them scrambled up the two trees that would give them the best vantage point over the approaching warg pack.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the young Prince, perched in the adjacent tree and biting his lip nervously. 

Two warg scouts neared them and, at a firm nod from Bilbo, Kíli quickly picked them both off. At that moment, the pack itself breached the crest of the nearby hill, around fourteen in number, and ten of those with riders. 

Kíli looked to Bilbo, wide-eyed - they were outnumbered. 

The four riderless wargs at the head of the pack stopped to sniff at the bodies of their fallen comrades whilst the orcs sharply turned their attention to the trees, scanning for any signs of the attacker. 

At the worried look from Kíli, Bilbo signalled for him to pick off three of the orcs. Each of them fell, screaming, from their mounts. The remaining orcs glared up at the trees and the one at the centre, who appeared to be in charge, snarled an order for them to fire arrows into the trees. 

Bilbo managed to snatch three projectiles from the volley and at a glance, he could see that Kíli also had one. 

Carefully, he handed them across and the dwarf took down the riderless beasts.

At this, the orc leader roared for an attack and the pack charged at the trees, into the dwarven ambush awaiting them. 

Bilbo remained crouched in the tree whilst Kíli launched himself, sword drawn into the fray, taking out an orc on his way down and using the body to cushion his landing. 

The leader was just below Bilbo, engaged in combat with a bellowing Bombur.

“Save the one with the elf sword,” he ordered, his tone as sickening as the twisted vowels of the Speech, “There’s a price on his pretty head.”

Bilbo leapt from the tree. 

“Die filth,” he hollered, his throat constricting painfully as he forced out the cruel tongue.

Landing on the orc’s back, he quickly silenced him with a stab to the windpipe. 

The rotund dwarf stared at him for a moment, before the dead leader’s warg lunged for him and he was drawn into the fray once more.

The hobbit picked up the dead orc’s knife, large enough for him to use as a sword, with a thin, wicked blade and he threw himself into the path of the warg that was sneaking up on Bofur, sending the blade through its skull with a sickening crunch. 

“All eyes to the Prince,” he shouted. He sent his blade through the rib cage of the orc in his periphery.

There was a panicked look from Balin as he sought out his sire in the chaos, but then they alighted on Thorin, flanked by both Dwalin and Bifur and he relaxed ever-so slightly. 

The fight continued, and Bilbo began to use his stealth to land several hits, aiming to incapacitate, especially those that approached dwarves with their backs turned. Soon, though to Bilbo it felt like an age, all the orcs were dead, and with only a few minor injuries amongst the Company.

“We must get to the Rivendell gate, and before nightfall,” Balin announced. 

Bilbo nodded at him, then conveyed in several short gestures, that he wanted to inspect the body of the orc leader before he would catch up. 

The dwarf gave him a suspicious glance, but left him to it all the same. 

Once the others were safely out of sight, Bilbo frisked the orc’s body until he found what he was looking for, a weathered piece of parchment - a missive from Erebor. 

He had scanned over it quickly, confirming what he had heard from the orc earlier. 

There was a price on the Prince’s head - and quite a hefty one at that. 

Venturing out of the copse, he retrieved Kíli’s arrows from the warg corpses before he moved swiftly in the other direction to catch up with the others. 

In the distance, not too far for them to go, he could see the rocky outcropping that marked the entrance to Rivendell. 

He was silent in his approach, making Bofur jump when he appeared beside him. 

“Bilbo!” he greeted cheerfully. He was bleeding sluggishly from his right eyebrow. “Where did you go?”

The hobbit looked to Balin, at the head of the Company with the Prince, and he held up the missive so all could see. 

“I found what I was looking for,” he announced, holding it higher, “There’s a price on the Prince’s head.”

Balin seemed to go slightly grey. Dwalin, however, lurched forward. 

“You know Black Speech?” he asked, well, demanded.

“Well there’s not much call for the righteous in my line of work, would you say?” he countered in a deceptively light-hearted tone. He addressed this to the Company at large, his gaze daring them to question him.

The Prince was giving him a strange, assessing look that made Bilbo’s stomach clench unpleasantly. 

He closed his eyes briefly, silently begging the powers that be not to let this- something that seemed to him so very trivial - to undo the bond he had established with the others. 

When he opened his eyes, Balin had stepped forward, a grim look on his face, not directed at Bilbo, even though his subsequent statement was.

“You mentioned a price on Prince Thorin’s head.”

“I did.”

Balin nodded to the missive, “And where did the order come from?”

Bilbo pursed his lips regretfully, telling the white-haired dwarf that he knew exactly where the order came from. 

Balin sighed, resigned, “And I’m guessing it comes from the King?”

Bilbo shook his head, “No, this came from the Minister.”

Thorin’s head shot up, “Not from my grandfather?”

“No.”

Several mutterings broke out across the Company, but they were soon drowned out by Thorin. 

“Enough,” he called, “I do not know what this will mean for our mission, but we carry on. Do we, or do we not have a duty to the people of Erebor?”

There was a loud cry of assent from the group and Bilbo felt himself smile, Thorin, well he was a born leader, and he would do well, Bilbo thought, once all this was over. 

“We shall have more chance to reflect on this once we reach Rivendell,” Thorin continued, “But for now, we must get there. I’ve no doubt more orcs will be upon us soon enough.”

At this there was a rallying cry, surprisingly loud considering their group numbered only nine, and they started off for the outcrop once more. 

Dwalin fell in beside him, and Bilbo could feel his gaze burning into the side of his face, yet each time he turned, the warrior was staring resolutely ahead. 

“You watch the Prince closely,” he stated after nearly half an hour in this manner. 

Bilbo remained quiet, weighing up how was best to answer. 

In the end, he decided upon honesty.

“I do,” he said simply, “I worry about him. Just as you do.”

Dwalin narrowed his eyes, “Not _just_ as I do.” His tone was almost teasing and Bilbo ducked his head in an attempt to hide his coloured cheeks.

The dwarf’s scarred lips quirked into a smirk that, on that stoic face, was most likely considered a full-blown grin.

“You are not bad hobbit,” he said, which again, Bilbo chose to interpret as praise. He smiled back, jostling Dwalin lightly with an elbow.

The returning playful shove near sent Bilbo sprawling to the ground. 

* * *

Rivendell was an almost indescribably beautiful place, all high sweeping arches and effortlessly naturalistic. The dwarves seemed less enthused, if their disdainful sweeping of the vicinity was anything to go by. 

It was a pity Bilbo could not explore it, confined as he was, as they all were, to the small set of rooms in a quiet, innocuous corner of the Homely House. They had settled into them within half an hour of being smuggled in and two hours had passed since then, with them yet to see hide nor hair of Lord Elrond, or indeed Gandalf, who had rather unsurprisingly vanished upon arrival.

The dwarves busied themselves with bathing and tending to their wounds. 

Thorin himself was sat off to the corner, close enough to the small window that the shaft of cool light danced around him, illuminating the strands of silver and bronze in his long hair, as he sharpened and polished his new sword. 

In a few swift movements, Bilbo was across the room and beside him, making the Prince jolt slightly in surprise, though he did not drop Orcrist. 

“Hello Master Bilbo,” he greeted with a small smile.

“Might I help you?” asked the hobbit without preamble, “You dwarves take such good care of your weaponry, I should like to learn.”

At his statement, a strange hush fell upon the rest of the Company and Thorin stared at him with wide eyes, spots of pink high on his cheeks.

The realisation dawned that he had committed some kind of incredible faux pas and he felt his own face redden in response.

“Such a thing is considered rather…intimate,” Balin proffered awkwardly.

The colour rose on the Prince’s cheeks.

“Ahh,” Bilbo said, hiding how thoroughly mortified he felt, “I see.”

“A dwarf’s weapon is most precious to them,” Thorin explained as the others began to return to their previous activities. “So as Balin said, sharing the care of a weapon is something usually only reserved for marriage. 

“I’m sorry for- for-”

“There’s no need to apologise Master Bilbo,” cut in Thorin smoothly, though he was still blushing prettily, “You did not know the custom.”

“Well from now on, I shall ask about anything concerning weapons,” he decided. After a moment, he continued, “Is it acceptable if I sit beside you whilst you work?”

“Perfectly so,” Thorin smiled.

Bilbo’s troublesome heart clenched in his chest.

“And can you tell me more about swords? I’m afraid I don’t know much beyond ‘pointy end in’.”

He received a skeptical glance for this and quirked a questioning eyebrow in reply. 

“I thought there would be more call for knowledge of weaponry in your line of work.”

“Techniques, yes, technical knowledge, not so much. Plus swords were never ideal, I need something small and innocuous; like I am.”

“You are far from innocuous, Master Bilbo,” the Prince said almost fondly. Thorin blinked a moment, as if realising what he had just said and he hunched over Orcrist, hair sweeping forward like a curtain to hide his face. 

“I shall be glad to teach you,” he added. A thick finger tapped the unsharpened edge of the blade, “Now do you know what this would be called?”

Bilbo smirked, “The non-hurty bit.”

Thorin gave him a flat look. 

They remained that way for a long time, until the harsh light of the afternoon sun softened to the warm yellow of evening, smoothing out the lines upon Thorin’s face, making him seem younger and otherworldly. 

On several occasions, the Prince would look to him, warmth glowing in his clear eyes and Bilbo’s breath would catch, his heart would stutter and he would remind himself once more that this was exceedingly not-good. 

Thorin had pulled out his other sword at some point; it had a fatter blade and was clearly dwarfish in style. 

“This is Binamrâd,” he said, “Or Deathless, in Westron.”

Bilbo rolled the Khuzdul word around his mouth for a moment, working the difficult consonants overhis tongue.

He missed Balin, who glanced up sharply at the sound of the familiar word on a foreign tongue, and then gave the Prince a warning look. Thorin stared back defiantly back, challenge written on his brow.

The older dwarf’s eyes widened as he understood, before softening to something akin to sadness as he looked between the pair, then back to the papers he had been reading.

“Master Bilbo,” asked Thorin, turning back to his companion, who was still quietly testing the word.“Do hobbits have their own language?”

Bilbo stopped and glanced up to Thorin, the evening light catching him just so, in such a way that it caught each fragment of gold in his eyes and hair that he appeared in that moment to be immaterial, a spectre of gold dust. 

“We do not have a language, so to speak,” Bilbo replied, unknowingly grounding himself in reality once more, “It’s more a dialect of Westron.”

“But you also speak the Black Speech?”

“That one’s just me,” he said wryly, “As is the little bit of Sindarin.”

Thorin’s nose wrinkled in mock distaste and he chortled at the sight. 

* * *

Elrond, having heard that the hobbit was the offspring of one Belladonna Took was most unenthused. He agreed to meet with Thorin and Balin, with Gandalf present, but made sure to express his dismay at their choice of company, and the implications of involving the Hornet on their mission. 

Thorin had glared, Balin had been diplomatic and Gandalf had blithely ignored him. 

Still, he was a good host, so he made sure they had plenty of supplies for the next leg of their journey. 

* * *

At Gandalf’s behest, the Eagles were to meet them on the pass through the Misty Mountains; just out of the view of the Valley of Imladris, lest they draw attention to themselves.

The Company made camp that night just off the uneven track and they dined upon broth and lembas bread. Thorin ordered that no fire should persist past sundown, so immediately after dinner, it was extinguished.

Despite the early summer warmth that filled their days, the nights were much cooler, especially in the high altitudes and with the icy wind that whipped between the peaks. The dwarves gathered together in what closely resembled a heap in order to sleep and Bilbo found himself sandwiched between Fíli and Kíli, close to the centre. 

He slept well that night, regardless of the chill, but before he drifted off, he reflected on how nice it was, the warmth and companionship and the new sense of belonging it all gave him.

By around noon the following day they reached the point Gandalf had indicated, and so they waited, getting themselves comfortable amongst the rocks. 

Bilbo contented himself with a small bush of wildflowers - the first greenery he had seen sine they entered the Misty Mountains. 

Bifur appeared beside him and gestured to the flowers with smile.

“They’re marigolds,” Bilbo answered, hoping he had interpreted the dwarf correctly. Bifur smiled wider, pleased, and dropped into a seat on the ground beside him.

“They mean grief,” he added, then he started to explain the importance of flowers in Hobbitish culture to Bifur, the dwarf listening intently, rubbing one of the silky yellow petals gently between his thumb and forefinger. He tried not to take the flower as an omen.

Just as Bilbo was coming to the end of his explanation of the different kinds of posy, the first Eagle broke through the cloud cover, swooping down to land upon the ground before Thorin. It was a magnificent creature, proud and tall, with rich brown feathers that gleamed like armour, even in the dull grey light of day.

It whistled something by way of greeting, bowing its massive head. Thorin inclined his own in return.

Seemingly satisfied, the Eagle called something again and four more soon landed. 

Bombur was helped onto the back of the smallest bird and the other dwarves began to pair off - Bifur and Bofur, Fíli and Kíli.

Thorin moved towards Bilbo, a slight smile on his face, but a hand on his arm held him back.

“The hobbit by far is the lightest,” Dwalin said, “He should ride with me - you should ride with one of your nephews.”

Before any could argue against this, Dwalin seized Bilbo beneath the armpits and dropped him unceremoniously onto the back of the nearest bird, then swinging himself up behind.

“Must you call me that?” Bilbo grumbled, “I’m not the only hobbit in the world you know.”

“Aye, but you’re our hobbit.”

Bilbo withheld the smile that threatened to spill out across his face at his gruff declaration. 

Without any warning, save a brief call, their Eagle launched itself into the air then, barrelling upwards through the clouds and leaving Bilbo’s stomach far behind on the ground.

The cool, silky fog surrounded them, until they broke through, and Bilbo could see the clouds stretched out below, miles upon miles of raw cotton tufts. A joyous shout drew his attention as the next Eagle broke out of the clouds, carrying Kíli and Thorin. 

Bilbo felt an answering grin to Kíli’s curl upon his lips and he laughed as their Eagle surged forward. 

Weightless, and oh-so very alive, he tilted his head back and stretched his arms out, feeling the wind rush through his fingertips. 

Dwalin cursed lightly and clutched him tighter, Thorin doing much the same as his nephew quickly copied Bilbo. 

Fíli and Balin’s Eagle appeared then, followed by Bofur and Bifur, and Bombur - the three of them looking a little green - Bofur kept glancing nervously down at the clouds, no doubt imagining the hard ground so very far below.

The birds moved steadily, seemingly without need for rest, or indeed to tiring at all. His joy never ceasing, Bilbo was content, grinning a little deliriously for the entire flight and he could feel the amusement radiating off the silent Dwalin behind him. 

The clouds thinned as they headed eastwards, and soon Bilbo could see the green earth below through wispy holes in the clouds.

The Eagles would not fly beyond the Wood; an age long superstition of the great darkness that had once lurked there.

Though Bilbo did not think the ancient and wise birds were such creatures as to believe in old wives’ tales, he knew that there was the practical consideration of five Eagles landing on the other side of the Wood hardly being inconspicuous. 

Insofar as he knew, the plan was to land just outside the home of one the White Wizard’s friends (though like most beings Gandalf declared friend, Bilbo was sure this Beorn was rather less enthused about the dubious honour).

* * *

The Eagles dropped them just in the shadow of a great tower called the Carrock, and, as promised, Gandalf waited there, pacing in an unusual show of anxiousness. Despite the Carrock blocking the sunlight, the base of it was lush with vegetation, verdant green grass and sprigs of flowers in whites, purples and yellows. 

Bilbo hopped from his and Dwalin’s Eagle with a smile, landing on his feet and instantly delighting in the feel of the cool blades between his toes as he wiggled them in the earth. 

“What is your fascination with plants?” Dwalin questioned with an exasperated fondness, landing on the ground beside him with a heavy thump.

“I could say the same about you and rocks,” the hobbit countered, prompting the dwarf to grin.

Gandalf swept over then, coming to Thorin in but a few strides.

“I have secured you asylum in King Thranduil’s Halls,” he said by way of greeting. 

Thorin managed a smile and a nod at that, though he remained very pale and more relieved at the fact he was once again on solid ground. 

“I shall lead you to Beorn’s, it is not more than a day’s walk from here.”

“Is everything in order Gandalf?” Balin asked. 

“I hope so,” the Wizard muttered a little ominously. He fixed on a bright smile then, and called everyone together as they were all dismounted from their Eagles now. 

Bilbo watched with a fond smile as the Eagles shot up into the air, dark against the warm afternoon light and bound for their mountain home. Once they were gone the Company set out, Gandalf at its head, through the hilly valleys of Western Rhovanion and Bilbo found himself astride with Bofur. 

They walked along in a companionable quiet, though it was not out of character, for Bofur still hummed cheerfully, a tune that no doubt came from some horrendously lewd drinking song. 

“Will you stay?” the dwarf asked after a while.

Bilbo looked to him, frowning in confusion.

“Afterwards,” Bofur clarified. 

Bilbo’s frown deepened. He hadn’t much anticipated reaching that point, but he nodded all the same. 

“I do not think I would wish to leave you all so soon,” he paused, “Though you never know, I may be sick of the sight of you all by then.”

Bofur laughed at that, but the expression quickly smoothed away and Bilbo could see his own fears reflected back from deep brown eyes.

Fears that this really wouldn’t end well.

“Well good,” Bofur said, smiling again. “We couldn’t have you leave us until you are so thoroughly sick of us, you swear never to come back.”

“Oh I’d still come back then, just for the pain it would give you.”

They lapsed into silence once more, and Bofur picked up with a different tune a few moment’s later. It sounded cheerful enough, but it was tinged with an odd sort of melancholy.

They walked for perhaps three hours more that day, until Gandalf suggested they make camp.

“We are but half a day’s walk away now,” he said. “Tomorrow, we should easily reach it by midday.”

The place where they sheltered was in a grassy clearing, enclosed on one side by trees and on the other by the steep, rocky wall of the valley. 

The mood throughout the camp was relaxed, the evening mild and pleasant, and Bilbo was content to sit and watch as the others flopped down in the cool grass as he himself sat beside the fire, absentmindedly stirring the food in the cook-pot as Bombur steadily added ingredients. 

There was a great, fat duck Kíli had shot down earlier that day, already plucked, that Bombur was steadily tearing strips off, adding the bits of meat to the stew.

Bilbo had also stumbled upon some herbs, rosemary mainly, so the resulting meal was fragrant and delicious. 

* * *

After dinner, Thorin approached Bilbo as he polished his knife and his orcish sword.

“So this is the Sting,” Thorin said reverently, turning the knife over in his hands. Then, his nose wrinkled, “It’s Elvish.”

“So’s your sword,” Bilbo pointed out.

Thorin gave Orcrist an exasperated look and it gleamed innocently in the firelight.

“My sword’s cooler,” he huffed.

Bilbo merely sighed, taking Sting back from the dwarf, and then nonchalantly, with a barely perceptible flick of his wrist, he sent it flying into the bark of the oak Dwalin was reclined against, a hair’s breadth from his head.

The dwarf in question leapt up with a yelp, and, upon noticing the dagger wedged into the bark, turned to glare at Bilbo.

Bilbo smirked back, straightening his shoulders as he proudly listened to the Prince’s snickering.

“I concede,” he managed between chuckles, “If I were to try that with Orcrist, Dwalin would probably lose an ear.”

“Or a testicle,” Bilbo retorted mildly, “Your aim is terrible.”

Thorin pulled out his own knife, a striking dwarfish piece with an onyx handle. He seemed to study it for a moment, before he took aim and sent it into the tree, about three inches to the left and half a foot below were Sting was.

Bilbo snorted.

* * *

Beorn was dead. Or at least, that was what they decided upon finding his home in ruins and the fields surrounding it that had fallen to waste and weeds. With no way to replenish their supplies, the group abandoned the eerie structure and continued on to the Wood.

Gandalf’s expression had been one of great sorrow and worry as he surveyed the lands. Bilbo swallowed thickly against the dread that pooled in his stomach. 

There was no way to go now but onwards.

* * *

Even cleared, as Gandalf claimed, of the darkness that once permeated them, the Woods were eerie. Twisted branches grasped down at the path and daylight failed to break through the canopy, creating an intense gloom. Gandalf had sent them down the Elven path, to meet an escort about a four day journey into the forest, before the Wizard himself had mounted his silvery steed and rode off beyond the Southern horizon. 

The hobbit barely slept that first night, all too aware of the shadows that flickered and lurched around them, the hairs raising on the back of his neck if he faced in one direction for too long. 

The Company were similarly subdued and suspicious and had taken to clustering together in twos and threes on the path. 

More often than not, Bilbo found himself in the presence of Thorin and Dwalin. The Prince kept himself staring resolutely ahead, trying not to bely the tension stretched taut across his shoulders. Dwalin held one of his axes in hand - Grasper, he thought - glaring sharply into the shadows at each rustle of the underbrush. Bilbo himself kept his hand close to the hilt of his orcish blade, poised as Dwalin was to protect their Prince. 

Gathered around the campsite that night, Bilbo nibbled absentmindedly at a chunk of lembas bread, watching the weak glow of the leaping flames as they failed to encroach upon the darkness. 

Across the fire, he could see Thorin, glaring into nothingness, a wary pallor to his face that Bilbo hoped was just from the lighting and not from the intense unease he himself felt. 

Even so, the Prince remained steadfast and handsome. He worked his way through his bowl of soup, head tilted towards his nephews as they chattered in an attempt to ease the tension.

A soft yet no less brilliant smile broke out at some feeble joke Kíli made and Bilbo too smiled into the crust of his bread, despite the painful swooping sensation in his chest. 

Someone sat down heavily beside him and the hobbit glanced up to see the hulking figure of Dwalin, leaning against the log as well.

Holding out a bowl of broth, he smiled wryly, digging into his own once Bilbo had taken it. 

As he ate, slowly and halfheartedly, Bilbo felt his gaze drift back to the Prince. 

In his periphery, he caught Dwalin stop his eating.

“You as well,” he sighed sadly.

Bilbo looked up to him sharply. 

“Just be careful,” the dwarf continued, barely above a mutter, “You know where we are bound.”

The hobbit nodded solemnly.

Sometimes, he wondered at just how it was his group of dwarves had come to care for a doomed soul like his. 

* * *

‘Less wise and more dangerous.’

Gandalf’s words echoed through Bilbo’s mind as they were marched towards the Elven King’s Hall. Overhead, wrought branches twisted into an abstract ceiling and Bilbo stared upwards as he moved, wondering if their entrance was so very audacious as it felt. He felt no more comforted by the fact the room they were led into was empty, save for a guard at the door and the distant figure of the King himself on his podium above. 

Alongside them, the ground fell away into nothingness, but the void was lit up by the odd spot of warm yellow.

This was so very clearly the throne room.

Was the Elven King intending to declare he granted asylum to the Exiled Prince of Durin? Surely such a thing would bring a hoard of orcs to his door. 

As they neared, Bilbo could see the King was untroubled by such concerns, if indeed he had even considered them, for he greeted them easily, reclined languorously on his throne of wood and bone. In his hand, he held a goblet of wine that he twirled, the deep liquid inside mimicking the movement yet not spilling over the edge. 

Eyeing him carefully, Bilbo saw the tautness under the surface, the sharp gleam hidden in cold eyes and a pale, unearthly exterior. 

This was not an Elf to be underestimated. 

“Prince Thorin,” he greeted coolly. Bilbo watched closely for any signs of hostility, but he soon surmised it was the manner of the King and not a judgement upon his Prince. 

Thorin’s lips quirked up in a satisfied smirk, one that made the hobbit heat beneath his collar. 

“King Thranduil,” he replied, “Still overgrown as ever, I see.”

An involuntary laugh broke forth from the King, a short, sharp bark of a thing that cut through the air like a knife. 

“And your manners are not improved any, since last we met,” he commented. 

“And your son, is he still an insolent sot?” called Dwalin from the back of their group. Out of the corner of his eye, Bilbo caught the wince on Balin’s face and he almost laughed

“Ahh, Master Dwalin,” drawled the King, “How could I forget the pleasure?” He grinned wickedly then, “And my, it seems you have grown both fatter and balder in your absence.”

“Aye, but no less quick.”

Barely had the words left his mouth, that an arrow came from the shadows above, landing scarcely an inch from the dwarf’s right toe. 

Bilbo’s hand leapt to the knife he kept on his belt, but it fell away as soon as he saw Dwalin’s smirk.

“I’m guessing that was your demon spawn?”

Thranduil, however, ignored him, having chosen to scan the Company instead, and the hobbit’s slight movement had caused those pale eyes to alight on him, a curious gleam within them. 

“And what have we here?” he grinned, sly and catlike. “A halfling? And so far from your kindly Western home too.”

“I should not call myself half of anything,” Bilbo said sharply. He smiled like a knife. “I would also advise you not to underestimate me. Prince Thorin made that mistake.”

Thranduil raised an eyebrow in the Prince’s direction. 

Dwalin chuckled and slapped Thorin upon the shoulder. “Aye, and he got a knife to his throat for his trouble.”

“Did he indeed,” Thranduil mused. “I must not admit, I had not expected the Hornet to be a hobbit, but then, I suppose that is rather the point.”

* * *

They gathered on the riverbank, where the red-headed elf - Tauriel, if Bilbo remembered correctly - began to treat the arrow wound in Kíli’s thigh. One of the orc corpses floated by them, leaving a sluggish trail of black in its wake.

The other elf, the Prince of the Woods, scanned the surroundings with his pale, unearthly eyes. He seemed to sense something and his strung his bow, aiming at the grassy bank and thusly setting the some of the others on their guard. 

A grim faced man, dressed in aged leathers, emerged and the Prince stood down, a near friendlier look passing over his stiff features.

“Bard,” he greeted simply. 

Bilbo withdrew his hand from his knife.

Rising to his full height, the man - Bard - made his way down to their group, inclining his head to the Elf-Prince. 

“Legolas, I came as soon as I could.”

“Well you have impeccable timing as always,” Prince Legolas commented, giving the man a strange look, “Father is indeed most grateful.”

An almost fond look passed briefly upon Bard’s face, “I am glad to hear it.”

The man then turned to Thorin and inclined his head in a deeper bow than that he had afforded to the elf.

“It is an honour to meet you, Your Majesty,” he said.

Thorin gave a gracious nod in return, but Bilbo caught the faint embarrassment that flashed through his eyes. It discomfited him to be addressed thusly, as if he were a king, when he continued to hold onto that fraction of hope that he could still address his grandfather as such. 

“Bard is descended of the Lord Girion, he lives now in Laketown,” Legolas informed them. “As do most of those who hail from Dale.”

“I believe I am to see you safely beyond Laketown and along the Running,” Bard said, not reacting to the declaration of his apparent nobility. 

Bilbo supposed he could see it clearer now, in the set of his shoulders and his pride in the carriage of self.

“Only so far as you can,” Balin insisted.

Bard nodded a concession, his mouth set grimly as he gestured for them to follow him back over the grassy knoll.

* * *

Bilbo was somewhat concerned to find their hideout in Laketown was no more than the crowded sitting room of Bard’s ramshackle abode. It was not the state of their lodgings, but the fact he had brought fugitives into his home; it put his three children at risk. Balin it seemed had similar worries, which he expressed in his careful manner.

“If there is a chance my children may grow up, without knowing hunger nor the foul oppression my people do now, then I shall take it.”

“But they should not be without a father.”

“Nor should they be without a mother, but she perished three years ago on the order of the Master.”

Thorin stepped up to the man then, “Bard of Dale,” he addressed, with more gravitas than their simple wood hut setting would imply, “I promise you, should we succeed, your children shall never know hunger again.”

There was a soft, sad look in his eye that made Bilbo’s chest clench painfully, so the hobbit offered up the best supportive smile he could manage. 

“And should some fate befall you, I shall ensure their safety myself.”

Bard looked momentarily speechless, then his lips tilted upward into a grim smile.

“I thank you, My Prince.”

* * *

They stole away from Laketown in the cold, grey light of dawn. Bilbo, in the too-large children’s coat, shivered as he looked out across the lake and the dark rocks that loomed from the mist like the coils of a great black snake. Huddling further into his felted collar, he traced the edges of the Wood with his eyes, watching as a lone bird would tear from the canopy of trees that burned with the horizon. 

Bard made slow, steady progress, steering the boat as if it were second nature and looking about warily, aware of every crack, every rustle, every wave that broke the oppressive silence. 

Ahead, sprawled the towering monument of the mountain, drawing them into the embrace of its spurs. 

Out of one of the barrels peeked the dark mass of Kíli’s hair and it struck Bilbo then, how very long it had been since these dwarves had seen their home; for Kíli and his brother, they had never once set eyes on Erebor before this quest, never once seen the massive vaulted halls, or the incredible forges their uncle described so lovingly. 

There was something precarious yet precious about this; this was no mere homecoming, but a liberation. 

These dwarves of Erebor, these children of Durin, they did not just live from the Mountain, they lived for it. Bilbo had come to understand just how sacred it was, a relationship that ran deeper than that between the hobbits and the earth they tilled and even than that of the Firstborn and their forests of ancient trees. With a new sense of profundity, Bilbo looked from the awed Kíli to the Lonely Mountain before him and he smiled, gently and ever so sadly. It would be an honour indeed, to call such a place one’s tomb. 

Bard gave him a grim look - thankfully not at all pitying - as if he knew Bilbo’s train of thought, or at least suspected it. 

On a whistle that sliced through the silence, a swift arrow shot through the air, embedding itself in the barge pole, mere inches above Bard’s wool-clad fingertips. 

Immediately, the man was on his guard, eyes quickly straining to look through the heavy fog. Kíli had ducked back into his barrel and Bilbo shrank further in on himself, playing out the part of the scared child though his hand crept for the hilt of his orcish knife. 

A second arrow came, this time from the right bank, and it skinned Bard’s arm, tearing a hole in his coat and leaving a mounting stream of red in its wake. He cried out in surprise and clutched at the wound. 

As if that were the signal, they came then from the fog, like a swarm of dark angry hornets from a nest.

All their Company was still weary with the early hour and the fight was quick and dreadful. Bard was incapacitated as they reached the shore. Thorin and Dwalin held back to protect him, but Bifur chased them away with some sharp Khuzdul. He faced down the approaching army of men with nothing but his axe and a wilting marigold in his hair. 

No-one wanted to leave, but there was nothing they could do but run.

And run. 

The cold air burned through their lungs as they ran across the barren landscape. 

Once they felt safe, and the shouts of the Laketown guards had fallen away, they slowed to a walk, then to a stop, with nothing but the sounds of their harsh breathing and the cruel roar of the wind to fill the air.

Dwalin gave a solemn clap to Bofur’s shoulder, and then another to Bombur’s which Bilbo knew to be a great declaration of solidarity for his shieldbrother’s kin. Thorin stood upon the edge of the hill, staring impassively out across the valley; a statue, save for the curtain of dark hair that whipped about him in the wind. 

Bombur was still breathing unevenly, fast and shallow, the panic at the loss of their cousin gripping at his lungs. 

Balin stood beside Bilbo, a look upon his face that was as grim as Bilbo felt. The hobbit turned his head from his precious, desolate Company as Balin spoke. 

“Bard was a fine man.”

“He still is,” insisted Bilbo. 

Balin glanced to him sharply, then offered the tiniest of smiles.

“Aye, he is.”

Bilbo nodded and turned his gaze back over his dear friends, a warmth curling in his chest despite the dreadful situation as he watched them. If he ever saw Gandalf again, he supposed he would thank him. For all his insistence that the world was wonderful and the fact that he never lost heart. Once, Bilbo would merely have been inclined to agree that yes, the world was indeed wonderful, but its peoples, well they were by and large, terrible, with Bilbo amongst their worst. 

And never before, Bilbo thought, would he have given in to the blind hope that a good man captured was not as good as dead. In his mind, Bifur and Bard were both still very much alive. 

He wondered if it would be too cruel now that they were here, to tell the Company how much better he was because of them, how much he thought better of the world, and of course, how much he really loved them all, only knowing as he did, that what awaited him was certainly nothing good. 

He offered a small smile to Balin and moved to sit beside Bofur. 

There was noting he could say, no words could do much after all, and he simply gave a gentle pat to the dwarf’s forearm whilst Bofur absentmindedly whittled away at a piece of wood. Bofur said nothing, but he turned to Bilbo with a hollow expression that was probably intended as a smile, but was far too broken and sorrowful for that. 

Bombur’s breaths had slowed now and from his seat on Bofur’s other side, Bilbo heard his stomach growl. The redheaded dwarf ducked his head, embarrassed and made to stand up. Leaping up, Bilbo put a hand to his shoulder to halt his movements. 

“Do not trouble yourself,” he said gently. He gestured vaguely to the sun, almost at its peak in the grey sky. “It is nearly noon, I say we eat something now, and that shall sustain us until we make camp this evening. What say you my Prince?”

Looking to Thorin, the Prince briefly turned his gaze to Bilbo and offered a simple hum of assent, along with a nod, before turning his attention back to the looming mountain. 

Bilbo set about making a stew then, using the small packing pot and setting it over a small fire crafted of stray branches. In went some of the salted fish from Laketown and several of the onions and the herbs that Bard had given them. It was hardly delicious fare, but it was at least better than some of the foods they had eaten on the journey when food was sparse. 

Dwalin came to sit beside him and he aided Bilbo, handing over ingredients when prompted. He sent the dwarf a grateful look when they were done and received a grunt in response, one he interpreted as grateful also. 

Lunch was eaten in silence, a quiet affair, broken only by the sound of metal spoons scraping wooden bowls. That was until Kíli managed to get several chunks of fish stuck in his thin, bristly beard and both Bofur and Fíli snorted in amusement at the sight. 

As the young dwarf hastily went to scrub them away, Bofur called out.

“I’d keep them there lad. Just wait until you grow a bit more of a beard - ah the feast I’ve had from the scraps.”

Bilbo could not help it as his nose wrinkled in distaste at the thought, but he joined in with the Company’s slight chuckles all the same. 

After that, their group fell into a light conversation, talk of beards and their first ‘brush’ as Balin called it. Bilbo was diverted to fond himself at the centre of some ridicule for his general lack of facial hair. 

“Hobbits do not grow beards,” he defended primly with mock offense. “Those with Stoor blood may manage some stubble, but they usually shave it away.”

“It is shameful!” cried Fíli gleefully. 

“Well for us hobbits,” Bilbo continued in the same prissy tone, “Our pride is in the hair on our feet. I might add that, the boots aside, your feet are all utterly shameful. Not in the slightest bit respectable.”

* * *

The Company sheltered that night behind a small grassy copse at the foot of the mountain. They went through the motions of setting up camp, but a sombre hush had befallen the group. Even Bofur was bereft of his usual jovial humour, instead offering up only a pale imitation of his usual smile when Bilbo looked to him.

Thorin sat on a log and gazed stonily up at the snow-capped peak. He ignored the bowl of soup Bilbo placed gently beside him, just as he did the vicious wind that tore through the valley, threatening to extinguish the fire. 

Bilbo was sat between the young Princes, each more reserved than usual and seeming to want to just enjoy his presence before… well before he entered the mountain. 

No-one really wanted to think about what came after, even though they all were.

As he sat and listened to the boys regale him with a tale of their antics - it was one he had heard before, but he was loath to stop them - he watched the firelight that danced across the sharp contours of Thorin’s face.

He wanted to commit every detail to memory; the way his greying strands gleamed like pale gold, the gentleness held in those large calloused palms, and the bright fire that burned behind blue irises.

There was an incredible softness, a goodness to him, but it only truly emerged in moments reserved for his nephews, for his cousins, for Erebor, and for Bilbo. 

Bilbo was not blind, but he was also not good and the only softness about him was his stomach.

He would rather face oblivion with a beautiful almost than pursue anything now.

That would be even crueler, he thought.

Thorin would be able to recover from an almost.

A definitely however, was not likely to be as kind.

Still as drowsiness claimed the consciousness of his two young companions, Bilbo moved across to perch beside the Prince on the log. 

Thorin did not acknowledge his presence, yet he swallowed thickly. The bobbing of his throat drew Bilbo’s eye before he quickly tore his gaze away to the Lonely Mountain, a looming, gorgeous shadow in the deep navy of the night. 

After a while, he shifted his hand, settling over Thorin’s where it rested on the wood. 

Neither made any sound, nor reacted in any way, their gazes remaining fixed ahead. But then, after a moment, Thorin’s hand turned and thick, warm fingers curled around Bilbo’s own. 

Hobbit and dwarf remained like that until the pale cold colours of dawn kissed their way onto the night’s canvas and Bilbo reluctantly pulled away, feeling his way across to his bed roll, hoping for at least a few hours sleep before facing whatever awaited him in the mountain.

Laying down with his back to the dying embers of the campfire, Bilbo found himself facing a raven, perched upon the nearby skeleton of a tree. One beady black eye was fixed on the hobbit, as if it was studying him, as if it could sense the spectre of death, waiting over his shoulder.

Shuddering, he rolled over and he fell asleep with the flickering of flames, in violent shades of red and orange dancing on the insides of his eyelids.

* * *

The back door to Erebor was hidden upon the side of the mountain, in a dip in the rock face, and before it stretched a rocky shelf, just large enough to hold their Company.

None of them wanted to say goodbyes, for goodbyes felt all too final. So each of their Company murmured a promise for Bilbo, a suggestion of what they could do once Erebor was reclaimed. Bilbo smiled wanly, returning each platitude in turn, until he reached Thorin. 

They stared at each other, the silence filled with things words were not adequate to express.

Thorin lifted the key from around his neck, the bright chain reflecting back the colourful notes of dawn. Handing it over to Balin, he sighed for a moment, gathering himself together. 

He turned to Bilbo, pinning him in place with that gorgeous blue stare. Bilbo swallowed thickly, his mind processing that this indeed might be the last time he saw that face.

“Master Bilbo,” he said gently, “I wish you luck.”

Bilbo smiled wryly, “Thank you, My Prince. I am certain I shall need it.”

Thorin chuckled, but it was a sad, forlorn little sound, so at odds with the usual mirth associated with such an action. 

“I wish that things were different.”

Any attempt at levity now would seem feeble and a falsehood, indeed no biting quip rose to the forefront of his mind, and he replied honestly, “So do I.”

This was his goodbye to the dwarf he loved.

Something cool was pressed into his hand and he glanced down to see Thorin’s knife, the distinctive hilt poking through the sheath. 

Bilbo looked back up to Thorin sharply, finding those blue eyes dark with meaning. 

“It would do me a great honour if you would take this, Master Bilbo.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Bilbo could see the others moving away, averting their eyes to give the Prince and the hobbit what little privacy could be afforded to them on the ledge. 

Glancing back into Thorin’s eyes, the selfish part of Bilbo, the part that so desperately wanted, warred with the deep felt knowledge that it would be unfair, cruel even, for the knife was not likely to come back out of the mountain again. 

And yet, and yet. Thorin was looking at him with such adoration - adoration for him, the rather unremarkable and surely unredeemable Bilbo Baggins - that he felt sure his rotten little heart would beat out of his sorry chest.

He curled his fingers around the knife.

“The honour is all mine, My Prince.”

A small, brilliant smile broke out across the Prince’s face.

Bilbo swallowed again and moved slowly toward the dark, gaping maw in the mountainside. Bofur gave him one last commiserating pat on the shoulder, though no-one spoke, with the risk of upsetting the gentle sorrow that encompassed them then. 

Squaring his shoulders, Bilbo stared defiantly into the darkness and clutched Thorin’s knife tighter in his hand.

Time to kill the Minister.

He stepped forward.

Into Erebor he went. 


End file.
